Her pulse stuttered, like it had been doing every five minutes since the Netherfield Ball.
Of course, she could not have lost the small one, in which the most interesting entry was Cook’s modifications to a famous lemon tart receipt from London. No, no, shehadto lose the one she had written in most.
The one that had once contained a seven-pound scandal and several observations about a gentleman’s eyebrows.
She looked up. Smiled. Said nothing.
They were already late, and she had experienced at least three minor heart seizures so far that morning. She was starting to understand exactly what her mother meant when she complained about her nerves.
The drawing room hadbeen transformed—or so claimed the brochure clutched in the gloved hand of a passing dowager. Elizabeth suspected "transformed" was a generous term. More likely, it had been bullied into submission with velvet rope and strategically arranged pedestals.
A string trio had settled themselves beneath the far window, playing something subdued and vaguely Italian. Tables of lemon cordial and sugared almonds stood beneath borrowed oil paintings.
Elizabeth made a slow circuit of the room, Jane at her side, until she found herself in front of a marble bust perched slightly off-center on a black velvet stand. The card beside it read:
“Possibly Roman. Possibly Local. Circa Uncertain.”
“Like most men of fortune,” she muttered, just loudly enough for Jane to laugh quietly into her handkerchief.
Jane wandered toward the music, and Elizabeth remained, studying the sculpture’s battered profile. The bust had lost its nose, half an ear, and any semblance of neck. What remained was impressively square-jawed and vaguely disappointed in the world.
A voice spoke just beside her.
“Missing parts often inspire more speculation than the whole ever could.”
Elizabeth blinked and turned. Darcy stood at her shoulder, very nearly in her shadow, hands behind his back like he meant to be respectful and had simply forgot what distance looked like.
She tilted her head toward the bust. “Do you think its nose left a letter of explanation?”
“Possibly. But I expect it would only raise more questions.”
She gave him a slow, sidelong glance. “Is this your way of calling me mysterious?”
“No. It is my way of saying you are being very difficult to read lately.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “Then perhaps you should have learned some languages besides Latin.”
He grunted. “Would it help if I introduced you to someone?”
She turned more fully now, one brow rising. “Someone mysterious? Or just someone missing a nose?”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Neither, I hope. Though he does possess both eyebrows, which seems to be your preferred criteria.”
She fought a smile. “Ah, yes. Brows like thunderclouds and a proper sense of disdain. Very hard to come by.”
He inclined his head toward the card tables. “Mr. Lane. He is clever, reasonably wealthy, and only half the room believes he fled the country during the French invasion scare.”
Elizabeth followed his gaze. Mr. Lane stood beside a potted plant, impeccably dressed and visibly blinking at the same place on the wall for the last minute.
She gave Darcy a pointed, deliberate look. “He is approximately a hundred and six.”
“He is no more than forty.”
“Years? Or chins?”
Darcy exhaled. “I thought you preferred a man of experience over one who is wet behind the ears.”
“Not the Napoleonic kind.”
